


Hitting Rock Bottom

by Stories_from_Unicron



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters - Daniel Kraus & Guillermo del Toro
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Bad Dirty Talk, Body Dysphoria, Choking, Comfort, Cum Inflation, Fluff and Smut, Loving Marriage, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Safewords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 04:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20090971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stories_from_Unicron/pseuds/Stories_from_Unicron
Summary: In the middle of a mating session; Stricklander begins to feel a bit like he doesn't measure up. Gunmar is quick to remind him that even an Impure has his good sides.One side, in particular.





	Hitting Rock Bottom

**Author's Note:**

> Stricklander's troll form has genitalia usually assigned to women, and Gunmar call him a Queen. This doesn't make him any less of a Mr.

  
Gunmar finished wrenching off Stricklander's clothing with his teeth. The changeling growled, a sound that was more reptile than feline. He hugged the Warlord's head, burying his face against his coarse mane. He sighed to himself, taking a deep breath. Gunmar still smelled like a Gumm-Gumm, but he'd begun allowing him to rinse his mane with Manakua shampoo, and it helped considerably.

Besides. He'd grown accustomed to this _particular_ gumm-gumm's scent.

His scent and his insults.

"Impure." Jagged fangs raked across Stricklander's chest.

"Brute." A slender foot began to rub between Gunmar's legs.

"Coward." broad palms cupped Stricklander's haunches.

"Monster." Stricklander paused to place his hands against Gunmar's cheekbones, looking him in the eye. He lowered his tone, and with all the venom he could manage; "Ugly, brutal beast."

Their foreheads came together in a hard bunt. Stricklander's backward-swept rack couldn't reach Gunmar's crown, but the Warlord turned his head to the side, knocking a sword-sized horn between his Queen's antlers.

"You are _weak_, Stricklander." Gunmar dropped the changeling, reaching down to turn him over. 

Stricklander yowled as his left arm was twisted behind his back. Gunmar grabbed a handful of his hair, pushing his face to the ground.

"_Bad arm_, Bad arm!" 

"Lift your rump."

He did as he was told, clenching his teeth against the pain that radiated through his shoulder. 

An instant later, the pressure on his forearm vanished, and Gunmar's heavy tongue began passing over his scapula. Stricklander groaned, the warmth of the Warlord's breath working its heat into his aching muscle.

"Better." Stricklander sighed, "Thank you." 

The soreness in his arm melted away, but even after Gunmar stopped his tongue massage, Stricklander found himself staring into the jaws of the Gumm-Gumm King.   
Gunmar's rune-scarred jawline was hard and rounded, holding teeth as ragged as a line of sunken gravestones. The flesh inside his mouth was the rich black-blue of uncarved slate, His tongue a soft splash of violet against the dark.

A hideous mouth. Absolutely hideous.

Hideous and mesmerizing.

Stricklander sighed once more, pillowing his face against his forearm. Distantly, he could make out the sound of Gunmar removing his faulds. He didn't need to glance back to know that the Warlord was erect. He could smell it.

Instinctively, the changeling raised his hips. The sound of Gunmar's stride suggested that he had dropped to all fours. The sudden intrusion of a nose scraping Stricklander's crux confirmed it.

  
Stricklander bit back a gasp, a flush rising to his cheeks. He'd never get used to his mate's savage habits, especially the way he sniffed him, exactly like a wolf taking stock of a bitch. 

Gunmar took in short, animal breaths, breathing out with rasping snuffs that may have been satisfaction, may have been aggression.

"Must you do that?" Stricklander asked.

In spite of his protests, he had to admit it was a bit flattering. 

A flint-clawed finger pushed into his entrance, and Stricklander grunted. His insides clamped down around the digit, muscles coiling to try and coax it deeper.

"You are _ready_." The Warlord rumbled as glistening strands of arousal dripped from the changeling's folds.

"Really?" He scoffed in response, "I hadn't noticed!"

Gunmar responded with a hard smack to his backside. Stricklander yelped in surprise, glancing back as the Warlord started fondling his rump.

"What are you doing?" 

"Patience, Stricklander. Let me examine my spoils."

Waltolomew Stricklander rolled his eyes. He was a man of numerous admirable qualities; An expert knife thrower, a patient teacher, a brilliant tactician and a keen swimmer. 

A voluptuous bottom was, sadly, not among his many charms.

"I'm afraid you'll find the pickings rather slim." He grumbled, more to himself than anything else.

Gunmar ran his tongue along the back of Stricklander's neck, biting at the spot where his scruff would be; had he remained pure.

"The flesh is sweetest close to the bone." He growled.

"Mm." Stricklander made a non-committal noise. 

"I've butchered thousands, Impure. I've built mountains of flesh to feed my hunger. In all my centuries, I have never seen a more toothesome haunch of Stalkling." Gunmar's moved his palms in slow circles, then dug the edge of his thumbs into the changeling's buttocks, prying them apart.

  
"Nngh-With all due respect, Gunmar, You are _repulsive._" Stricklander winced, hiding a smile against the back of his hand.

"No marbling, no heft. Nothing but sinew. Like two grails pressed together. I could drink Bloodgrog from the clefts!" A graveled bass rose from deep in Gunmar's chest, the sound dripping both pride and possession.

Stricklander propped his chin onto his palm. With his other hand, he began to drum his claws against the stone floor.

"Shall I leave you two alone?" He asked, "I can go wait in the other room if you'd like."

Gunmar chuckled, and a second later Stricklander felt the Warlord's chest brush over his back. Gunmar's palms came to rest against the backs of his hands, and Stricklander found his smile fading as he examined their vastly different limbs.

Gunmar the Black; with biceps the size of hubcaps and forearms like cinderblocks. His arms were tattooed with elaborate glyphs that signaled his high status, starting at his shoulder and trailing all the way to his hands; Four-fingered, each tipped with a gleaming claw. 

His own hands looked like spiders in comparison. Spindly fingers, large, knobby knuckles, short, well filed claws that any self-respecting Gumm-Gumm would laugh at. They'd laugh even if he tried to grow them out. He was too accustomed to human grooming. He filed his claws, and he brushed his tusks after each meal, and he used pomade to keep his hair out of his eyes. Because in the end, it didn't matter that he'd been born a troll. Or that he'd married a King. He would never be a proper Gumm-Gumm. Or proper human, for that matter.

He closed his eyes and let out his breath.

Not enough of either. Impure. 

"You're sighing as if you'd rather be a meal than mounted." Gunmar's gruff tone pulled him out of his spiral of self pity.

"You say that like you're joking; but I'm sure once I'm old and gray you'll---OUUGH!"

The words were snatched from his mouth as Gunmar's rut suddenly tunneled into him, The thick center forcing the lips of his crux to stretch. 

"Sok Fynka!" Stricklander gasped out the trollish swear, clawing the floor for purchase. 

"Why would I ever eat this piece of flesh when it suits me so well?" Gunmar lifted his haunches, his organ pulling free until only the tapered head remained coiled inside.

"Gunmar-" Stricklander wasn't given a chance to say anything else.

Gunmar put the full force of his weight behind his next thrust, and Stricklander howled as his hips slammed into the ground.

Gunmar's rut was beginng to curl inside him, twisting like a Nyarlagroth to make room for the rest of it. Stricklander could feel it move, stretching his walls with an inescapable weight. When it finally settled behind his navel, it was like an anchor pinning him in place.

"Look at you. The Pale Lady's most twisted creation. Her masterwork." 

Gunmar's hips made a sharp scraping sound against Stricklander's thighs.

"The finest weapon she has ever forged for me." 

"F-for you?" Stricklander echoed, tentative and breathless. His eyes were beginning to glow.

"How many pure-blooded trolls have you taunted with the knowledge that you are the consort of Gunmar the Black? You walk among them, ripe and wet and breed-ready, and every bull and mare in Trollmarket can smell my claim on you. Who are you trying to tempt, Impure? Them, or me? You wear your cloth low, so that everyone can see the curve of your hips. Your shoulders, your antlers, your eyes. Your sunrise-eyes. They are mine, they are for me." 

Stricklander felt himself ripping as Gunmar mounted him. There would be tears, and he'd be sore for weeks, but the pain seemed very distant compared with the heat of the heavy thing battering against his womb. The nooks and crags on Gunmar's member brushed his walls relentlessly, no nerve safe from the smouldering strokes.

Stricklander retaliated, meeting each blow with a snarl of defiance. His palms braced against the floor; pushing back in time with the Warlord's thrusts.  
The changeling could feel himself rising, the sensation just below his belly was like an updraft, a building heat that lifted him higher and higher.

"Do you demand proof of my favor? Then bring me any who would challenge my claim! I'll crush them into dust. I will burn down Trollmarket, I would burn the surface world to the ground before I let you go! You are _my Weapon_, Stricklander. _My Queen._"

Gunmar's claws clamped down over Stricklander's hands.

**"Mine."**

His strokes slowed.

_"Mine."_

Gunmar smiled to himself as he felt the changeling clutch tight around his rut. He recognized the way Stricklander arched like a cat beneath him; the spectacle he made of himself when he climaxed.

It was a sight that he'd never tire of. How his shoulders tensed, the flash of his eyes, the way his mouth fell open, locked in an expression of breathless submission.

How the treacherous impure looked when finally, at long last; he _yielded_.

Stricklander let out a moan. His limbs went limp as he pressed his forehead to the floor, panting quietly. Gunmar brought his tongue to rasp against his cheek, and, surprisingly, Stricklander allowed the affection for a few moments. When he'd had enough, he gave a light-clawed swat to Gunmar's snout, pushing him away.

"Better?" The Warlord grunted, nipping at one of Stricklander's horns.

"Marginally." The changeling admitted.

Gunmar drew out, rising to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Stricklander pushed himself up, watching as Gunmar made his way back to the throne. "You didn't finish."

"I made you twist" Gunmar sat down, his rut hanging between his legs. "That's enough."

The Warlord's breath came in slow, hitching gasps, his head held low.

Stricklander frowned and rose to his feet.

"My Lord, are you---" He stepped forward, reaching for him. 

Gunmar swatted his hand aside, snarling a warning. The sound of menace broke off into a coughing fit, and the changeling stepped back. 

Stricklander concealed his concern behind a scoff. He folded his arms over his chest, eyeing the Warlord.

"You are not allowed to 'twist me' then sit there looking smug. Like it or not, you're going to get your rocks off. "

Something dark passed across the Gumm-Gumm King's face, but Stricklander stepped forward, glancing his palms along Gunmar's thighs. 

"I know it's not the way Trolls do things, but I am your husband, Gunmar. Let me look after you." 

Gunmar sighed, the stormclouds fading from his expression.

"You have my attention, Stricklander."

The changeling nodded once, bunting his forehead against the Warlord's jaw .

"Leave everything to me. I'll have you feeling your oats in no time." A toothy smirk crept across his face. "and I'm going to do so without touching it."

Gunmar looked unconvinced.

"You don't think I can. Want to make a wager of it?" Stricklander used three fingers to lift Gunmar's chin, bringing his face in close. "If I can get it up and running, then you do something for me."

"Why would it be running?" Gunmar sounded genuinely concerned.

Stricklander waved off the question.

"Nevermind that. If I can get it up, will you something for me?" 

"Without touching it?"

"Without touching."

"I will...consider it."

"Promise me the favor and I'll make it worth your while."

"_Fine._ You and your Fleshbag mating games."

Stricklander chortled at the exasperation in Gunmar's voice. Then, without further ado, he cleared his throat, jabbed Gunmar in the chest with his finger, and in his warm, lilting accent, he declared;

"Gunmar, more than anything, I want you to take that disgusting rut of yours-"

He clenched his fist dramatically at the word 'disgusting'.

"--and I want you--"

He reached up and wrapped his hand around Gunmar's horn, pulling the Warlord's head forward.

"--to shove every throbbing inch of it ---" 

Then, the Changeling Queen pressed his thin lips to the Gumm-Gumm King's ear, and in the huskiest voice he could manage, he whispered three words.

Gunmar spine stiffened, his single eye flaring. 

A half-instant later, his rut sprang to attention, slapping against Stricklander's back with enough force to nearly topple him.

"Ouch. You see?" Stricklander reached over and wrapped his fingers around Gunmar's member, tugging at the head. "Just like magic."

Gunmar's erection had returned from the dead with a vengeance. Glistening-slick and drooling precum; a tapering column with a stone-hard base that became more mallable towards the center.

Pliant and heavy, as if the muscle underneath his skin were made of clay.

Slimy, moldable clay. 

"Do you still have that oil from earlier? When you were polishing your leathers?" Stricklander asked, lips quirked in a smile.

Gunmar glanced around a moment, then retrieved a glass bottle of volcano-troll oil from beside his throne. 

"That'll do." Stricklander took the bottle. He sat up straight, and without breaking eye contact, tugged the cork out with his teeth.

Stricklander leaned back, spreading his legs open. He poured some of the oil onto his fingers, more deliberately than he needed to.

  
Gunmar dug his claws into the armrests of his throne, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "If you're toying with me, Impure..."

"Oh, I haven't even begun to toy with you."

As he spoke, Stricklander brought his heel to rest on Gunmar's shoulder. The Warlord's lap was nearly the size of a writing desk, and it formed a more than adequate stage for his private performance.

He started by stroking his rim with his pointer and index fingers, working the oil in slowly. 

"I've been meaning to ask you, Gunmar; have you always liked watching, or am I the exception?" 

"Trolls don't play these mating games." Gunmar replied. He propped his elbow against the arm of his throne, resting his chin against his fist for a more comfortable view.

"You say that, yet you seem very keen to learn them." 

"Only because you play so well, Stricklander."

Stricklander's breath hitched as he slipped two fingers into his ass. The oil burned like ginger, but the prickling heat seemed to help relax him open.

After a moment to pace himself, he added a third finger.

The sensation wasn't nearly as intense in his Trollish form, which lacked a prostate, but there was still a wicked little shiver of lust that came with rubbing his walls from behind. 

Stricklander panted quietly, leaned back against the Warlord's erection. It was firm enough to hold his weight, and from a reclining position, he could show Gunmar more.

Stricklander lifted his free hand to his crux. A sparse patch of gray fur form an arrow over his folds; and his claws parted it as he began brushing his thumb against his clitoris. The electric friction made his fingers move faster and the muscles over his belly began to quiver.

Gunmar's lips parted. His lone pupil grew larger, as if to take in every detail of his mate's delectable anatomy.

The changeling whimpered at Gunmar's expression. In spite of everything, He ached. He ached from his crux, from his ass, he ached from centuries of grooming to be a good servant, to be useful and wanted. Despite his ambitions, there was still a deep-rooted need to please his Warlord. Usually, he was strong enough to defy it.  
Usually.

"Gunmar." The changeling whined his mate's name, hips rising and falling in time with his fingers, "My Lord."

As the changeling watched, The Warlord's barbed tongue emerged from between his teeth. The muscle flattened, then curled up to run along his fangs in a feral gesture of appetite. 

Stricklander pulled the hand from his crux to cover his mouth, smothering another whimper. 

The Gumm-Gumm King watched carefully, and the next time his Queen's hips lifted, Gunmar brought his tongue down to meet them. With a single thrust, he pushed the muscle into Stricklander's twitching crux.

The changeling's irises narrowed into slits, he could feel the organ curling against his pelvic floor, and the sensation of having both holes plugged sent him reeling. For an instant, he completely forgot about Gunmar's favor, or his ambitions, or his fears, the entire world was reduced to those two spots between his legs and the things filling them.

"Gunmar---" He gasped out, "Gunmar, _don't you dare_\---"

The Warlord's eye flared, the corners of his mouth curving into a wicked grin.

All it took was Gunmar pushing his tongue out and in twice, and Stricklander tipped over the edge.

"GUNMAR!" 

Stricklander felt himself toppling backwards. He started to yelp, but Gunmar came to his rescue, catching him around the waist.

Caught in this position, like a dancer being dipped, Stricklander rode out the rest of his climax, little waves of bliss rippling through his belly.

"You---" Stricklander panted, his chest heaving, "--You glorkhole!" He sat up, smacking his fist against the wardlord's chest.

Gunmar's booming laugh shook the throneroom. On the second swing, he caught Stricklanders fist and pulled him closer. 

Stricklander scowled up at his mate, loathing how smug Gunmar looked, and how nice it felt to have the Warlord gazing down at him as if he were the King's most precious possession.

"You are the worst." Stricklander spat. "And futhermore---"

Gunmar pressed his black lips to Stricklander's mouth, and the rest of his insult went unheard.

A few more kisses and half a bottle of Volcanic Troll oil later, and Stricklander was ready to take the plunge. 

"Well, I'm sure this is attractive." He grumbled from his awkward position. The changeling shifted slightly, testing his balance. With his clawed feet pressed against Gunmar's knees, his knees stuck out at a sharp angle, as if he were about to jump off a springboard. The Warlord's claws engulfed his hands and wrists, pulling his arms taut behind his back for leverage.

"You look fine from my perspective." Gunmar tilted his head slightly, admiring the way the changelings cheeks clenched as he tried to find his footing. 

"Alright." Stricklander pushed himself back, feeling the point of Gunmar's organ nuzzling against his ring. He tried very hard not to think about how much Troll Rut there was in comparison to the amount of space inside him.

He was _going_ to do this. 

He would wipe that smug look off Gunmar's face.

  
"Nnnnngh--" in spite of his best efforts, an unsightly grunt escaped him as he tried to lower his ass.

  
"You need to relax it, Stricklander."

"I'm TRYING to relax it!" Stricklander snapped. He gritted his teeth, forcing the first three inches into his back passage.

His eyes widened, watering in pain.

"Ah---" 

With a quiet hiss, he lifted himself back into a half-crouch. 

"Just give me a moment--I can do this. I nearly had it," Stricklander rasped, biting back tears of frustration.

The Gumm-Gumm King shifted, placing a hand over his Queen's midsection. His claws curled, leaving three scratches against Stricklander's stone.

"I am going to lift my claws, Impure. When you feel the last one rise, you will open your bowels." 

There was no room for discussion in Gunmar's coldly patient tone.

This was going to happen.

"Y-Yes, Dark Underlord." Stricklander grimaced, hoping he looked more confident than he sounded.

Gunmar's claws stroked his front, gliding up and down before going still.

First, the Warlord lifted his finger, and Stricklander swallowed nervously.

Then, his middle talon rose, and the changeling shut his eyes.

When the third claw left his skin, Stricklander took in a sharp breath. brought his hips down and pushed out.

Gunmar's rut went up and in.

The changeling's eyes flashed. He opened his mouth to scream, but the sound caught in his throat.

He'd expected that it would _hurt._

He'd expected it to go_ deep._

But only one of his expectations was _met_ and **exceeded**.

  
Shaking, Stricklander glanced down at himself. Bearing down had relaxed his muscles, and in a single thrust, Gunmar had almost managed to impale him. His rut had pushed through his spinchter, past the curve of his rectum, and then curled to rest somewhere in his colon.

  
and it was only half of the way in.

Stricklander had been with Trolls before. When it came to mating, Changelings were rarely given a choice. He'd been buggered and reamed and mounted, but never like this. Never with oil and preparation and foreplay. 

Never so _thoroughly_.

He was moaning, he could hear himself; guttural and hoarse. The solid weight in his gut was slick, warm and decadent and every twitchy little throb sent flutters through his frame

"_Oh_," Stricklander shivered, giving his hips a tentative roll. "Oh, that is _good_."

  
He pressed his hand over the bulge in his stomach, stroking the it through his skin.

The second he touched it, the rut gushed. Troll spend was thick and warm and Stricklander could feel every last drop of it spurting into his guts. He yelped; less from the heat, and more because he hadn't been prepared.

"Did you---" The changeling blinked once, incredulous. "Did you just come from putting it in?"

He glanced over his shoulder at Gunmar. One look was all he needed for his answer.

The Warlord quaked, his muscles bunched and coiled, as if he were in pain. His wolfish eye was as bright as a full moon, blue flames licking at the corner of his socket.  
He seemed to be wheezing.

"You did, didn't you, Dark Underlord?" Stricklander snickered, making no attempt to hide his smirk.

Gunmar's response was a breathless croak, biting off the end of each word.

"I. felt. nothing.** impure.**"

Stricklander gave a sly little smile 

"Well, then I'd better try harder."

He clenched, forcing his hips down before twisting them and dragging back up. His insides caught and tugged at the massive organ; wringing it dry.

  
Up, until it was nearly out, and then down again, up and then back in. He pressed one clawed hand beneath his horns, tilting his head back.

Stricklander heard Gunmar grunting behind him, trying so hard not to roar. He could see his lips peeled back, hooves bracing against the ground until the polished stone began to crack. The warlord bucked, lifting his haunches.

  
"It's a good thing you didn't come." Stricklander gasped, keeping his balance like a bull rider. "If you had, then this would be excruciating!"

The changeling dragged himself up, brimming with the promise of a third climax. He groaned without shame, savoring the wicked, Trollish pleasure of being stretched thin and tight and full.

Before he could slam himself down, four taloned fingers closed around his throat, holding him in place.

Stricklander gagged, trying to draw in a breath. In response, Gunmar crushed his windpipe until it closed.

"You forget your place, Stricklander." Gunmar drew himself to his full height, rising from his throne.

Stricklander clawed at Gunmar's fingers, trying desperately to pry them off. 

Gunmar watched for a bit. Then, he settled back into his throne and began to push the changeling down.

"Gunmar---" Stricklander's shoulders jerked, eyes bulging. He dug his nails into Gunmar's stone, so deeply that they nearly broke off.

  
"Gunmar, _harder._"

Gunmar growled; so softly that it was nearly a purr. He tightened his grip, watching as the sunlight began to fade from the changelings eyes.

He set his free hand against Stricklander's flank, pushing him up, then pressing him back down.

Stricklander choked, his irises vanishing into the back of his head. His ass was stretched to the brink of splitting, nearly as wide as a Nylarlagroth egg. He was full; so full and so very open. He couldn't scream, he could only gasp and squirm as the rut moved deeper. 

Past his descending colon; into the transverse now. A tickling, prodding weight that made his guts twist.

No more, _no more_, **there wasn't room**

Gunmar was groaning, his breath wet against Stricklander's neck. The changeling reached back, grabbing onto his horns for purchase. He sank his claws into the bony crown as Gunmar dragged him upward one last time by his throat.

  
Then slowly, and firmly, pushed down.

Stricklander shivered, barely conscious but still blissfully aware that his mate was seeding him again. He nearly melted from the exceptional pleasure of being filled once more with Gunmar's unique, heartstone-infused spend. 

His stomach began to bloat; the smooth abdominals dimpling outward. Two years ago, He might have been startled at the sight; but he'd grown accustomed to their mating sessions ending this way; with him sloshing and satisfied.

Stricklander let out the last of his air in a shuddering sigh. Then he went limp, his hands falling to his side like dead birds.

Gunmar unclenched his fist.

The changeling slumped backward, and Gunmar had to shake him before he stirred to life. Stricklander gasped, drawing in a few gulps of air before he began to cough. He rubbed at this throat, strands of spit running down the corners of his mouth. 

"If your shell on the battlefield was as hard as your mating armor, the surface world would be ours." Gunmar grazed his claws over the changelings neck, nuzzling the back of his head.

"Ah..." Stricklander coughed; his voice raw and cracked. "Ahhv...ahl..."

"Avalon?" Gunmar asked.

"Avalon." 

Stricklander shuddered as Gunmar pulled out of him. He grimaced at the tightness in his guts.

"Ow." The changeling pressed both hands onto his belly; pushing down to try and expel some of the cum. He only managed a little spurt before a wave of queasiness made him give up.

Gunmar pressed a hand over his swell. For a second it settled there, and Stricklander found himself wondering what would happen if Gunmar were a younger, healthier troll. If they timed their matings right...

  
All thoughts of that sort vanished when Gunmar pushed down. Stricklander gagged, doubling over as the spend was forced out from between his legs. 

If Gunmar was repulsed by the pool that splashed over his lap, he didn't show it. 

"Again; Ow." Stricklander whimpered. He tried to face Gunmar, but as soon as he turned; the room began to spin.

Once more, the Gumm-Gumm King caught his mate before he could fall. 

Stricklander slumped forward, pressing his face into the cleft between Gunmar's pecs. There was no pillow to scream into, so this would have to do for now.

Gunmar chuckled, lifting a claw to rub Stricklander's back. The changeling groaned something, but his words were muffled by troll muscle. 

Gunmar managed to make out the word 'arse.'

"I was starting to think you'd forgotten the word of surrender."

"Safety word, Gunmar. It is called a safety word." Stricklander let out a pained hiss, "Mother of Monsters, you've _ruined_ me."

"Show me, Stricklander."

The changeling glanced away. Reflexively, he raised a hand to his throat, trying to tug at a shirt collar that was no longer there.

Gunmar's eye narrowed.

"Shame has no place in rutting. Not for a Troll."

"but I'm not a---"

Stricklander's protests were cut off as claws closed around his ankles, pinning them together. He groaned, covering his face with both hands as his legs were hoisted into the air. In this position, the Warlord's handiwork was on full display.

The changeling's back passage had expanded into a cavern; walls parted to expose his depths. The swollen flesh glistened, as lush as freshly-spun silk.

Gunmar ran his thumb around the rim, grinning as his mate began to whimper.

"Careful!" Stricklander winced, a shudder running through him, "S-sensitive!"

"You'll live." Gunmar released his ankles, settling back, "You are resilent, Stricklander. Even if your eyes are bigger than your stomach."

The changeling paused, glancing up.

Gunmar looked exceedingly pleased with himself.

  
"I won't lie." Stricklander admitted, "I feel a bit _gutted_."

Gunmar chuffed.

"Made an ass of yourself, Impure."

"Now, now, Gunmar. I haven't hit rock bottom."

"It would be a fitting end."

"No more. I can't stomach another word." Stricklander chuckled, resting his head against Gunmar's chest. 

The changeling closed his eyes, turning his head to one side as he took several cooling breaths.

  
Gunmar gave him another shake, more gently than he needed to.

"Stricklander."

"Mm?" Sticklnder's eyes flickered opened.

"What was that favor you wanted?"

The changeling chuckled, setting his head down to rest once more.

"How do you say 'Fellatio' in Trollish?" He asked. 

Gunmar's mouth opened and closed once, and he tilted his head slightly, trying to decide if Stricklander was making fun of him.

"Rutshuga." He finally responded. "Why do you ask?

"I'll tell you later." 

For a few lingering minutes, the two stayed that way. Gunmar the Black, King of the Darklands, seated upon a throne of dying Heartstone, and on his chest, half-dozing...

Gunmar looked down. Considering.

Stricklander was no ones idea of a Gumm-Gumm Queen. He was impure, treacherous, and manipulative. He was scrawny, prim, he snorted when he laughed and he refused to eat human flesh.

The warlord used his claws to push a wisp of gray hair out of the changelings face. From the way his narrow chest rose and fell, Gunmar knew that he'd fallen asleep.

Stricklander would never be a proper Queen.

But Gunmar couldn't deny that he was a good fit.


End file.
